


Artistic Liberty

by justlikeswitchblades



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gaslighting, Hallucinations, M/M, Season 1 Spoilers, Vomiting, bad mouth feel, schrodinger's hanahaki AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:42:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: He had tried swallowing again, but then came the rising sensation of acrid, stinging bile, a surge of nausea, a solid lump traveling up his esophagus, gagging, and then finally regurgitating it. It, a single ear, deposited into his sink.Will keeps replaying the scene in his mind, sometimes wondering if the memory is becoming distorted in some way, like a cassette tape starting to wear after being looped too many times on repeat.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Artistic Liberty

**Author's Note:**

> i made a joke tweet about will coughing up ears instead of flower petals in a hanahaki AU and this isn't entirely that fic, but it also is

He was still in that fog between dreaming and wake, jolted from sleep and drenched in his own sweat, though that had become his normal. He had stumbled not to the toilet to vomit--the urge hadn’t taken hold of him yet--but to the kitchen sink, cupping the rush of water and drinking, splashing his face, taking a pill and swallowing it. A pause, the tablet catching, as vitamins notoriously do, on some smooth patch of his throat. 

He had tried swallowing again, but then came the rising sensation of acrid, stinging bile, a surge of nausea, a solid lump traveling up his esophagus, gagging, and then finally regurgitating it. It, a single ear, deposited into his sink. His head pounding, his body shaking, unable to identify what was real and what wasn’t, the map of ridges and canyons and gaping abysses of skin not even the size of his palm staring back up at him, threatening to swallow him as he somehow had swallowed it. Pressing his palms to his face and pushing them through his hair, his thumbs catching his own two earlobes in an ever-pounding crescendo of reality.

\--

Will keeps replaying the scene in his mind, sometimes wondering if the memory is becoming distorted in some way, like a cassette tape starting to wear after being looped too many times on repeat. He takes the puzzle apart, too many pieces missing for him to reassemble it. He thinks about gutting fish, the clean cut with the right kind of knife, but he can’t imagine separating an ear from someone’s head the same way. He doesn’t think of cutting up and away, but standing above someone, like a barber and a client in his chair, and cutting down, with a serrated knife, separating a piece of bread from the loaf. 

The ear should've been more gnarled and ragged anyway, more tissue left behind in his teeth. He couldn’t have swallowed it whole. More of the ear should’ve been spotted, at least a little curdled by his stomach acid. His jaw surely would've ached more if he _had_ done it, more than the vague soreness caused by grinding his teeth at night on a regular basis. That should be part of his defense, he thinks, and manages what he can of a rueful laugh.

He opens his eyes to the gridded ceiling of an white padded cell, the material going gray near the seams of every square, either a result of pressure, or age. His mind feels more like his own again, now that he’s received actual medication and treatment for his condition, though it’s easy to get bored. He keeps reflecting, or napping, or bouncing between different phases of lucidity, but at least it’s on his own terms.

\--

The tray on which they serve his meals is an off-white, flawlessly smooth plastic, likely to minimize injury of patient or staff in the event of an actual psychotic breakdown. The meals vary little; watery scrambled eggs, toast, occasionally a fruit cup for breakfast. A vegetable of some kind tasting uncomfortably like sodium from a can, mashed potatoes, unremarkable cuts of protein already sliced or cubed into bite-size pieces--they trust him, supervised, with a fork. 

Tonight, he is served corn, a starch, and six ears, almost nugget-sized. If they were breaded and fried, he would’ve been none the wiser. He inhales, lets his eyes drift up to the light in the ceiling, and exhales, his gaze settling again on the arrangement of ears. Charcuterie-esque in their variety, one with pale freckles along the shell, another with two shallow holes for piercings in the lobe, a myriad of skin tones. There can’t be too much protein in an ear. It’s just cartilage and other tissues, right? It’s soft enough. He can take one in his hand, squeeze and fold it with little resistance, but it can’t be a tender meat. Maybe it’s chewy but with a little gristle, like jerky. He sighs, and finally bares his teeth, ready to wrestle off a bite. The bite is clean, and he blinks again to a Spam-like slice of meat in his hand. He chews slowly, turning the meat into flavorless slush in his mouth before swallowing.

\--

Will keeps being shuffled from cage to cage to cage. His proper cell, where he can sleep, eat, pace, relieve himself, repeat. The prospect of being moved to a different cell breaks up the monotony, even if it’s only to stand in another cell the size of a telephone booth, or to sit in the one almost like an office, his wrists tethered together on a chain. He feels grateful that he never kept his dogs in crates, save for when he was introducing a new stray to the group for the first few nights. 

He sits, and he watches, and he provides answers when he can, whether it be his lawyers spreading out documents for him to review, or Jack or Alana toeing the line between interrogating him, trying to forgive him, and seeking absolution, though the last one always seems to be more for themselves than him. Sometimes talk with Alana calms into something reminiscent of a chat over coffee, appropriate for him to ask her about the dogs, for a reminder of how big her backyard is. He hopes they have enough room to run around, that they’re being walked enough. It goes without saying that he misses them.

The sensation in his mouth when he isn’t talking feels like a handful of M&Ms, or to be more texturally accurate, is like gumming popcorn, or chewing on stale gummy candy. Ridges of tiny ears press into his teeth and cheeks as he moves them around with his tongue. Nothing ever falls out when he opens his mouth to respond, but the sensation comes back exponentially whenever he finishes speaking, buzzing and tingling, like he’s tipped a cup full of Dippin’ Dots into his mouth at a baseball game.

\--

Will doesn’t look when he hears footsteps. He recognizes the sound of the shoe, the practiced, almost elegant lilt of the walk. 

“I’m surprised Chilton let you in. He doesn’t seem keen on sharing custody of my brain.” He can’t help a grim smile as he looks to Hannibal, wool coat folded over his arm, wearing a muted fuchsia tie and pocket square to match, his suit shades of gray and white plaid. “Or maybe that’s still being discussed in the divorce papers.” Hannibal reveals nothing in his smile when addressed.

“How does it feel, Will? To have someone else’s fingers poking around your brain?”

“I feel--” Will’s laugh is rough, quiet, grating like sandpaper. “A kinship with Play-Doh. Or bread. But that’s not what you’re here to discuss, Doctor Lecter.”

“My former patient and friend has been committed to a psychiatric institution. As a physician, I am concerned both for my image, and your well-being, Will.” Will wipes at his mouth and the stubble on his chin as he stands up from his cot, walking to the front of his cell.

"You’re a man of culture, Doctor Lecter.” He segues, relaxing the best he can into the iron bars, propping an elbow up in empty air, gazing into the section of darkened hallway that isn’t obscured by the wall in front of him,. “Didn't Van Gogh cut off his ear as a gift to his lover?" Hannibal pauses and turns to face the same direction as Will, as if looking at a painting in a gallery together.

“Van Gogh was living with Gaugin at the time. Some think the pressure of keeping up with a senior artist had gotten to him. He cut off his ear, gave it to a prostitute, and was taken to hospital the next day to be treated. He said he had no memory of the incident by the time he recovered.” 

Will’s eyebrows draw together, his head cocked to the side, lips parted in minor confusion at the correction of his error. He lets his arm fall back to his side, and Hannibal looks to him, a diluted concern on his features.

“Is something the matter, Will?”’

“"No.” Will answers, shaking his head. “I just was thinking imitation is the greatest form of flattery.” His eyes slide to Hannibal at the suggestion, who meets him with a placid smile once more.

“One could very well argue that it is necessary to romanticize the symptoms of Van Gogh’s illness in order to make his art more appealing to the public. But, at the same time, no one is arguing that he was ever sane. Would we still appreciate his sunflowers, his night skies, if we knew nothing about him? Would we be able to tame our collective curiosity around the portraits of a bearded man in a sunhat, to seek out his identity, to determine if he were artist or muse?” Hannibal’s footfalls begin to tap in the hallway as he waxes, and Will is not so far removed that his imagination does not flicker briefly to the sound of his soles softening on carpet, the lighting warm, sitting in that brown leather chair while Hannibal looks about his study, surveying his library above.

Will’s chest heaves as he turns inward and coughs into the crook of his elbow, a shining phlegm-coated ear sticking to and beginning to slough down the stiff sleeve of his jumpsuit. He looks at the cell wall in front of him with a simmer of an exhale, and Hannibal lifts his eyebrows, looking at Will’s sleeve without comment. Will stares straight ahead, pretending not to notice.

"Some say nothing is original anymore,” Hannibal resumes after a moment, something like resignation mixing with the subtle tones of ego in his voice. “We do not encourage plagiarism, but we do our best to step around it and avoid getting our feet wet. Others lean into it and embrace it.” Another pause. “I think we can both agree the success of an artist’s work all depends on the viewer’s interpretation.”

Hannibal nods in conclusion and in parting, and his steps echo down the hall, moving out and away. Will stews, waiting until the silence is absolute, then moves to violently jerk his arm over the open toilet, not bothering to look at the object that splashes in the water below.

**Author's Note:**

> citing my [sources](https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/art-and-stories/vincent-van-gogh-faq/why-did-vincent-van-gogh-cut-off-his-ear) for hannibal's comment on van gogh - i definitely was taught that vincent cut off his ear and gave it as a gift to a lover as a kid


End file.
